The Colour Purple Chapter 77: a Freak of Nature, a king of fighters fanfic

The Colour Purple... The King of Fighters '95

pointblankassassin . com

This (chapter) fanfiction was originally written circa: [XX.96] (Thank you)

"Which Character are you?"

Note to self: Legacy chapter numbering (32- - -), does not match. [Original chapter written 2016]

ORIGINAL CHAPTER. (Previously Chapter 36, rewritten from Omae No Tame Ni)

"Thank you." Clark said after Alex heaved a second helping of rice on his plate.

"He looks so lonely, sitting by himself, eating plain boiled chicken and white rice."

1978. 2 weeks after the 7th day.

An awkward silence was the reply; a long drawn out quiet implied a unanimous agreement amongst the other boys. "Ya, it's kind of sad."

"You guys are idiots." Ralf cussed as he walked up, washing his dirty plate under the running water. "If the guy is happy, then it doesn't matter." The rushing sound of water made his fork and spoon chatter on his aluminum plate as he ran his fingers to clean up the mess.

At the far end of the camp, Clark sat by himself and shoveled his plain food silently.

If Clark is happy – then he's completed his mission. Instead, all of you are the lonely ones.

…

The End of the Bizarre Love Pentagon.

{What did you see, Clark?} Ralf mused. {Just what did you SEE there, I wonder?"}

…

I will warn you.

If you continue along this lonely path… "You will not be able to feel anything." As much as your mortal body sacrifices - this road you tread upon will have nothing to give you in return, and everything you once strived for, will become useless…

Soon. The notion of education. Accomplishment. Victory. Satisfaction. Regret. Animosity. Even the relief from torment. All those feelings will soon turn tasteless and bland.

"…and you will feel nothing." Except. "You will only feel… pain." Clark Steel.

When you stop fighting – for yourself.

What exactly happened in 1993? We were simply trying our best to survive. The concept of living idly in happiness was a far-fetched notion – when we were teenagers, and everyday was a war – because during that time, we still played by someone else's rules, and all who lorded over us thought nothing of the torture we endured. Because they were adults.

Those adults, who always forgot, what it was like… TO be like children. TO be like US.

…and everything we did, seemed absolutely WORTHLESS – because some of us were simply weak, and ignorant, and some of us were 15 years old then. In 1993.

What was that word? That sensation you felt from the back and bottom of your spine when it radiated up and overcame your body – when you thought you had lost – but instead you had won – a miasma, a warm rapture of flavours. When you lifted yourself up, finally, and felt a relief from thoughts of defeat. The sensation when you conquered, just when you thought you had lost it all?

"It is okay, if I give it up for you… and if in the end, you made good your promise."

You oh the King of Kings. Save me from our suffering. That piercing sensation that lingered from the bottom of our hearts. You oh the King of Kings. Save me from our suffering.

…if you do, then the future will once again be bright, FOR you made the past simply inconsequential. Back then, WE SUFFERED, not in vain. And if we can ridicule our past, when those chains would no longer be able to hold us back.

…if you do, then even this bland taste of everyday, will be sweeter – than anything HE had set aside for us in the end. You understand it now, don't you?

...

THE [KING] OF FIGHTERS. [Which character are you?]

Even if it was plain and bland, to Clark, the flavour had suddenly become sweeter than before.

In my selfishness.

Was this…? Was this the first time I made a conscious decision to become [evil]?

…

"Do you really, love, King?" The small tape recorder repeated in low resolution.

"No."

"No?" Yuri's voice repeated on that tape.

"I don't love King."

Clark's voice – in that tape recorder repeated… That small box, made of cheap steel and plastic mocked him, "If you get in my way, I will kill you, Yuri Sakazaki. I will kill you, and all of your friends who made King this way." WHRRRRR… Then click, and then silence of static.

That dark gray tape recorder hit the ground in a clitter-clack. The void had… Clark, mouth agape looked upwards, had no words to say to free himself from the viscous, strangling, and drowning quagmire. That pool of hate now came back as clawed talons collapsing his lungs.

…

Chapter 77: a Freak of Nature

The END of La Bizarre Love Pentagon – part 13 –

"It's OVER, Clark." Yuri stabbed her index finger outward at him, when the thunder silenced itself mid-way and the storm had come to pass. All was left was a stiff, hard to breathe atmosphere on that rooftop above La Bijoux. "Your game is OVER. You understand me?!" Yuri slammed her foot forward and splayed her arms wide. "I don't know how harsh King's father was to her, but not even the lowliest scum on earth wouldn't..."

I am, unable to feel ANYTHING.

"Augh!" Was her enemy's reply.

Yuri held her tracks and glared silently at Clark who had now hunched a bit forward and put his left palm over the plastic lens that covered his right eye. "Aghhhhh…." Clark hissed from the back of his throat.

I FEEL… NOTHING, NOW.

"Hey… HEY!" Yuri screamed, pulling Clark back to her. "You hear me? DO you fucking understand what I'm…"

"Be quiet." Clark cut Yuri short in an instant with a terse reply. "Can you be…" SHHHRRRXXXKKXX…. Static. "Can… can you be quiet for a bit?!"

When my ankles broke and I fell on the 7th day. I gave it all up for…

"Hey, I don't think you fucki…"

[What was that word?!]

"I SAID, be QUIET!" Clark boomed, counteracting Yuri's slow advance - his fingers drilling into his forehead now, and the echo of his roar hurled the last bit of drizzling rain back to the sky from where it came.

Yuri took a step back and put her fists up on instinct.

"Ah." Clark took a deep breath in, put his right hand over his right knee and bent down slowly as not to further tax his aging bones. The tired old man now, let go of his face, and with his left hand wrapped his fingers around that plastic brick and put it up mid height as he sighed. "I'm sorry, my head hurt, and I dropped it." Clark droned, "This is pretty expensive, isn't it."

Confused and perplexed Yuri said nothing in reply – for all this ridiculous banter, she could not understand why Clark trapped himself in place, and had now reverted into a sense of calm, just after she had presented him with a check-mate that he could NEVER escape.

The gleam of the flickering streetlights that would soon extinguish raced past and over the brim of Clark's hat and swept over his face a moment from light to dark when the bulbs finally flickered off, and as they did, Clark's wicked grin flashed for all of us to see.

Dripping a burning, killing venom.

This is part of your obligation. Without regrets.

Clark hunched forward and breathed out lethargically – absolutely bored at this petty endgame. "Yuri." Clark said, putting that tape recorder on his cheek. "Is this tape your only copy?" You cannot defeat me. Everything you do is WORTHLESS.

Agh. My eye hurts, as Clark drifted back when those arms pulled him into the abyss.

Just as… SCHHRRK… said… I cannot remember that sweet feeling that I once...

…

In 1977 – a gallon of gas cost 65 US cents, and a sirloin steak was $1.19 per pound.

"I can take this, ma'am." Clark said with a smile, grabbing four brown paper bags of groceries before she could even react.

"Oh!"

"O…ka.?" The Knight said in an awkward way, opening the door behind the garage.

"Oh honey, yes." She said to the Knight before putting her hands on her skirt and turning to the side. "Thank you sir." She smiled at Clark.

"You're welcome, ma'am." Clark replied, shuffling both shoulders as he carried those four grocery bags effortlessly in his arms.

"You must be Clark." The Knight's wife exclaimed pleasantly. While time had passed her husband and herself by, the Knight's wife still projected a bright, calming presence though her graying locks. "Thank you so much." She said. "Honey, Clark is such a nice boy."

"Do you need help with that, Clark?" Knight asked.

"No I'm okay, sir." Clark nodded.

She turned to the boy and said, "Thank you so much for your help, Clark; Did you train with King-chan today?" She asked.

Clark hunched down and nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"Oh…" She said with rolling thought. "Ten it must have been a hard day, sir."

"A little bit." Clark was quick to chuckle, though the sudden laugh made the sides of his ribs ache ever so slightly – the grueling emotion colouring his expression.

"Oh." She said, but this time her voice was tinted with a taste of melancholy. "Clark…" She smiled sincerely, but somehow, her eyes drooped longingly when she was finally able to catch Clark's attention. "Thank you for your help, and I hope you get along with King-chan. King is… is so…"

"Dear, you need any more help!?" Knight called from the back of the garage where he stood.

"No we're okay, honey." She said, before turning back to Clark. "King really is actually very nice."

"Honey!?"

"We're coming, dear."

Her lingering thoughts were interrupted and in second nature the Knight's wife put her hands over her thighs and looked upwards on the second story balcony that was dark save for the faint glimmer of light that gleamed silently over a young boy's face, who looked down without voice, over the driveway of that house, a house simple and plain, that was in an ordinary sleepy town, here, in 1977, in this country of New Hong Kong.

"Ah…" the Knight's wife exclaimed. "King-chan? King-chan?" She said inquisitively. She smiled. "Tadaima. I'm home." She said reflexively. "Did you have a good day with Mr. Clark?"

King's palms wrapped over and around the bannister on that second story. Mute and silent.

All of these. These things. These were ALL under someone else's rules, isn't it?

"King-chan." King's mother said. "We're going to have dinner soon. Why don't you take a bath and join us when you're done?"

in 1977…

Stopping in mid step Clark turned his heels and looked over to the second story, his face lingering at the perplexing look that was frozen on his enemy's face.

Without a word, King turned around and walked back into the abyss from which we all came from. …and, in this silence, just here, King had walked away and was gone.

"King-chan," she sighed.

Clark's mouth curled as if he was about to say something, yet, somehow, just as after he had inhaled and was about to say it, he held back and instead, Clark turned towards the back of the garage, at the Knight.

What did you say?

"Oh, the more the merrier. I just thought of something, Sir Clark." The Japanese mother said with a very peculiar Asian accent laced with a slight British tone that was hard to place. "If you'll be staying with us for a week, Clark-san." The Knight's wife said. "How nice, if you do, maybe… Maybe you can have Christmas dinner with us?" She smiled softly. "That would be nice."

"A." Clark said. "A, yes. That would be…"

That would be nice.

…

You were right, after all. I feel nothing – I feel no regret - as I descend into evil.

"Is this tape your only copy?" Clark asked.

Even when the storm had settled the wind thrust up into the sky, a dirty and torn newspaper. On its front were the numbers 1993.

Yuri held her stance…

…

"Do you want a beer, Clark?" Knight said as he popped the top off a bottle he pulled from a large metal bucket filled with ice and offered it to the young boy.

Clark smiled. "No thank you sir. I'm still a minor."

"Oh?" Knight sighed, a bit disappointed – to which is wife chuckled but half-heartedly sent a guilt-inducing glare at her husband. Knight pretended not to notice and paid his wife no heed. "Well, that's a shame. If you change your mind, you let me know, boy."

"Oh Clark, is the steak good?"

Clark was absolutely famished; the hunger had literally burned a hole in his stomach and through that hole the food he shoveled in, feel into an endless pit. Clark's silence was compliment enough, and she smiled.

The mood was light but silent, yet it seemed – like it was nothing out of the ordinary. The four of them, Knight, his wife, King and Clark each sat at every side of the short rectangular table and ate their dinner calmly and peacefully. It seemed quiet and lonely at first, but after a while, Clark's shoulders relaxed as the food warmed his body. It wasn't so bad. Even if it was quiet, it was not so bad eating together as a family around the dinner table. Those thoughts that crossed his mind made the taste even more satisfying.

From 60 miles an hour to a motionless 0, Clark bit down on the last bit of meat and with a clank put his knife and fork on his plate and draped his napkin over the pile.

"Wait, wait…" Knight's wife offered with her gentle voice. "Don't be in such a hurry." She smiled. She took the cloth napkin and folded it in half, then quarter triangles before putting it to the side of the plate. She then lined up Clark's fork and knife parallel and to one side of his plate. "There." She said. "When you're done, just put your silverware like this."

"Oh." Clark said, after a slight pause and a confused stare. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." She answered. "It just looks nicer that way."

Clark's thoughts were interrupted when King pushed his chair back and rose to a stand. He had only eaten half of his steak and in similar fashion put his utensils next to each other, at the one side of his plate and folded his napkin and also put it aside.

"Oh, you're not hungry, King?" His mother asked.

King did not reply and wordlessly took the half eaten plate to the kitchen with both hands, then proceeded to walk up the dark staircase.

Knight continued eating at his ritualistically slow pace and said nothing.

…

"Your room is at the end of the hall then turn right, Clark."

"Thank you sir."

The later it became, the more and more Clark's body began to rebel – he could hardly move as his joints begun to atrophy from the strain and fatigue of the long day. {Oh Jesus. It would be so good to sleep and never wake up again.} He thought. It had ben a long time since this arrogant blonde haired boy received such a beating. It had been forever and a day since he had experienced such a futile one-sided fight. So tired, so weak and so mortified. His full belly was the only thing that calmed his broken shell of pride and pulled him to a lust for slumber.

However half way down the hallway Clark could not help but have his gaze be stolen by the light that came from the 8 inch, a handspan's crack of the bathroom door. He should have looked away, it did not matter, and it was probably nothing, yet that slight shuffling movement in the bathroom caught his eye and would not let go.

Clark forced himself to ignore that familiar pang. When he walked one step then two, even if he wanted to just simply ignore it – he could not deny – that this feeling, this sensation that lingered in the air was a familiar one. Even when the dark night was silent and Knight and his wife could not hear, for some reason…

For some reason, Clark dug deep and could swear he heard a faint whisper, a weak static, an unfamiliar voice from a small boy. A sound that was lingering between a fine line of crying and laughing.

Even if it was all a hallucination brought about by fatigue, this sharp, tearing, like the cutting of broken glass, the smell of stale iron, this feeling, this carnal sensation was undeniable.

God was confused; why did man not want to be saved?

Clark stood in place, just two steps past the beam of light that escaped from that small crack, a handspan wide. He tilted his head side to side to piece together the puzzle of abstract movements from the meager clues from that small picture taken out of context.

"Hey." Clark said.

There was no response.

"Hey!" He said again. Clark put his hand on the bathroom door and swung it open slowly without even waiting for permission.

King stood in a loose, white long sleeves pulled up to his biceps in front of the sink hunched over lethargically, his face was drenched in water and sweat, his eyes rolled up almost into his eyelids, staring at the mirror.

…

"Hey. You need someone to teach you how to use scissors?" Clark jeered.

With his right hand, King grasped a pair of splayed scissors like a knife, paying no care eventhough the one bare blade dug into the insides of his four wrapped fingers.

Clark stood in the doorway, unwilling to look away, and locked his gaze into King.

King said nothing and like a poltergeist, his head swiveled on his shoulders like an animated mannequin and looked back at Clark. Two minutes that could have well been twenty minutes to these two boys, it did not matter because neither of them would break nor say anything.

The droplets of water ran down the short strands of King's blond 'barber cut' military bangs before collecting into large pools that dropped downwards. A red drop stained the once immaculate porcelain from his fingers.

Even then, Clark made no move and remained petrified, unwilling to give way.

King grabbed the dirty rag with his right hand and gripped tight for a few moments. King cussed out to himself, he wiped the blood-soiled scissors and folded the rag over and over to conceal the red blood in the inner folds of the sullied cloth before throwing it in the trash.

Still refusing to say anything, King turned away to wipe his face with the hanging towel then walked towards the door, stopping only a step from Clark, Clark who still refused to move and stared down eye to eye with King, their faces floating a breath away from each other menacingly.

King looked up, absolutely un-intimidated. Once again their cold and silent stalemate ensued. Kings visage was cold and uncaring, his lazy eyes just stared at Clark – the look – King's face emitted a dark, indifferent gloom.

As Clark thought silently to himself, King's wounded right hand tensed into a fist and trembled as it cracked and snapped.

It was all coy and futile. Clark breathed out a sigh and turned to the side, letting King pass. Their standoff finally over without incident, King walked to the end of the dark hall and turned left and closed the door behind him.

"Freak," Clark spat.

…

You were right, after all. I feel nothing – I feel no regret - as I descend into evil.

"Is this tape your only copy?" Clark asked.

Even when the storm had settled the wind thrust up into the sky, a dirty and torn newspaper. On its front were the numbers 1993.

Yuri held her stance…

"Where did I put that?" Clark mumbled to himself… He calmly jammed his hand into the left cargo pocket of his pants, pulled out a mass of junk and put it in front of his face. "Was this it…?" shifting his fingers left and right, Clark pulled out a clump of objects from his wide bellowed pockets. A crumpled receipt, a plastic bottle of eye drops, and a worn envelope of film negatives. "Oh no, that's not it." Clark mused and grinned with a sly sliver of nostalgia, glazing his vision over that worn envelope and the strips of negative film. Oh no, that's not it.

SHHHHRRRGHKKKK… The story had changed.

Oh no, that's not it.

Without pause, Clark stabbed his opposite hand into his thigh and pulled out another array of objects. "A." That's it. "Say, Yuri." Clark said.

Between Clark's thumb and index finger was a small plastic cassette. "I think I found your original." The boy, now an old man bent at the waist, with a grinning sneer Clark locked gazes with Yuri and his lips parted to talk.

Clark pulled out from his pocket a small one and a half inch cassette tape and put it in front of his face. "I think I found your original."